


lines upon our palms

by Mononoke



Series: Orbiting Bodies [2]
Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: M/M, Texting, badly written sex, how spies spend their time when they're not being spies, i hope real secret agents aren't this gossipy, suspend that disbelief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:11:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mononoke/pseuds/Mononoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s an automated message; he gets a similar one when he calls Brandt’s phone, as well as Jane’s and Ethan’s. One wouldn’t have surprised him, but all three? Those messages are only activated when agents are sent out on missions.<br/>So where are they?</p><p>(Or: the one where Benji is left out of a mission)</p>
            </blockquote>





	lines upon our palms

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who read, bookmarked, commented, or left kudos on [keep the car running](http://archiveofourown.org/works/296265). I never imagined it would get such an amazing reception. Those of you who wanted another part, here it is. I hope it's okay.
> 
> I took the details of the IMF from _Mission: Impossible III_ , but, as always, apologies if I've gotten something wrong.
> 
> Title taken from the [song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BPEIMf_2wRw) by Josh Pyke.

Between missions, Benji spends most of his time in Richmond, Virginia. He’s got an apartment there, leftover from when he’d been little more than a technician. Nothing fancy: one bedroom, within walking distance of the IMF field office, and enough books and DVDs to make the place look lived in should a casual observer ever get a glimpse inside.

Not that he makes a habit of inviting random people into his home. There are no photos on the walls, no information that could be damaging should his identity be discovered (save for some surveillance footage that he really shouldn’t have from a certain mission in Berlin, but even that’s buried under as much security as he can manage). The place could be abandoned in an instant if need be.

Benji hopes it doesn’t come to that. The neighbours are nice enough, and there’s a pub a couple of blocks away that serves a decent brew. He likes it here.

He’s been off duty for about a week, time spent sleeping and letting his body recover. He’d had to tackle a target to the ground during their last mission, took a blow to the head in the process, and his muscles haven’t yet forgiven him for it. He flails out, grabs his cell phone from his bedside table, and texts, _don’t know how u do it. feel like i’ve been run over_

It takes about a minute or so, before Brandt responds, _Being run over feels worse._

Benji frowns. As if it isn’t weird enough that he and Brandt text semi-regularly, every so often he rips out a comment like _that_ , and Benji’s not sure how to take it. _dare i ask?_

 _If I tell you I’ll have to kill you._

Benji rolls his eyes. _ha ha_ , he sends back, and returns the phone to its resting place.

Long, hot showers have become his way of relaxing in the wake of a mission; he can let his body wind down and catalogue any injuries he’s picked up all at once. With the water running down him Benji pokes at his latest collection. There’s a spatter of bruising across his ribs and upper back, but the colour has gone from bluish-purple to a faint yellow, and it doesn’t hurt to move so much now. The bump on his head has faded, too, though it’s still a little tender to the touch.

The thing is, Benji knows he’s getting off lightly in the injuries department. He’s been there when things blew up in their faces – figuratively and literally – so he’s seen firsthand the kind of damage they can take. And Benji, be it thanks to luck or his role on the team, usually escapes the worst of it. A few bruises and a bump to the head is nothing worth complaining about.

But he complains anyway, and Brandt listens to him when he does.

 

The following morning he’s woken by a ringing in his ears. Benji flinches, and buries himself almost entirely beneath the sheets before he realises the noise is actually his phone. He groans into the mattress.

Legs tangled, he almost tips himself out of the bed in an effort to answer it. “’lo?”

“Good morning, sir,” a cool female voice greets him. “I’m calling from the Department of Transportation. If you’d like to come in and speak with our human resources department this afternoon, we can discuss your current work hours. Have a pleasant day.”

The line goes dead in his ear. Benji stares at the phone for a few moments before placing it back on its cradle. It’s not a particularly difficult message to decipher, but code words still give him a headache, especially when he’s half asleep.

When the time comes he heads out to the Department of Transportation, where a woman behind the front desk funnels him through a side door, down a set of stairs, and into the IMF field office proper. An eye scan later and one of the security guards directs him to a separate room, where he paces, waiting, until a woman with a clipboard enters.

“Agent Dunn,” she smiles at him, shakes his hand. “You’re currently listed on the inactive duty roster, correct?”

Benji blinks. “Um. Yes. I’ve, uh, just returned from a mission.”

The woman nods. “Follow me, please.” She leads him out of the room and along a corridor until they come to an elevator. “Do you know why you were asked here?”

“I just got a phone call.”

The elevator dings. They step inside.

“We’ve been dealing with a potential security threat in our communications system.” She takes a look at his face and adds, “Nothing that would threaten the lives of anyone in the field. While we’ve had technicians working on it, there’s been an influx of encoded information just left sitting around, and we need people’s eyes on it. We’ve called in anyone with experience.” The elevator opens on a familiar hallway, and the woman steps out.

They’re at tech services. Benji’s so busy staring that the doors almost shut on him; he shoulders his way out and rushes after the woman.

“Sorry,” Benji catches up to her near the end of the hall, “I’m a bit confused. You know I passed the field exam? I’m not really a technician any more.”

“We’re understaffed, and your file lists you as one of our most skilled technicians.” She pushes the door open, holds it there for him. “This isn’t a permanent reassignment, Agent Dunn. Now, if you wouldn’t mind …” She tilts her head towards the room.

Benji peers inside. Is refusing even an option at this point? With a tight-lipped smile he nods at the woman, and steps through. The door shuts behind him, and he’s left to find his workstation.

He sets out across the floor. As he walks, he spots a few former colleagues; they look surprised to see him, and Benji’s smile grows ever more forced as he walks by. The sound of computer fans and dozens of people typing used to be a comfort. Now he can hardly think through the noise. Tackling targets all day seems more appealing by the minute.

Finally he spots his desk, almost collapses into his chair when he reaches it. A pile has already started to accumulate: documents, disks, and flash drives that he’ll need to examine. While he waits for the computer to log him in Benji types out a quick message and sends it to Brandt.

 _back on technician duty. i seem to be regressing_

Benji’s cell buzzes immediately, making him jump so hard he almost knocks his keyboard off the desk. He grabs his phone out of his pocket, opens the new message. What he sees makes him frown.

 _Currently away on business. Will contact you after I’ve returned._

It’s an automated message; he gets a similar one when he calls Brandt’s phone, as well as Jane’s and Ethan’s. One wouldn’t have surprised him, but all three? Those messages are only activated when agents are sent out on missions.

So where are they?

 

The security threat is resolved in just a few days, which is probably still too long for an issue like that, but it’s not like Benji could do anything about it. He listens to the other technicians gossip about the nature of the breach, but doesn’t comment on it; he keeps his head down, focuses on the task at hand.

With each new file he works on, Benji finds himself wondering if this particular piece of intelligence is something that’ll help his team. He continues to send Brandt texts – _experiencing adrenaline rush withdrawals: send help!_ – even though he’s still only receiving automated messages in return. He figures they’ll make a nice welcome home present.

And then he’s on a plane to Dubai, about to embark on a new mission with a group of people he’s never met.

It happens like this:

He’s been working as a technician for just over a week when one night he comes home and finds an unmarked envelope in his mail slot. It brings him to a halt immediately. He almost leaves it there, but paranoia gets the best of him and Benji carries it up to his apartment, holding it by his fingertips.

It sits on the kitchen counter until finally he mutters, “Fuck it,” and tears open the envelope. A cell phone slides out. When it doesn’t explode in his face Benji pokes at it, and when it continues to not explode he turns it on. After scanning his eye and confirming his identity a video loads, and a voice he knows all too well says, “Good evening, Mr Dunn.”

He misses the next few seconds of information, so surprised that there’s nothing but white noise in his ears. When he comes back to himself the voice is saying, “… choose to accept it, is to rendezvous with the team already in Dubai, and assist in conducting surveillance on the target. Gather intelligence and determine his intentions. Good luck, Benji. This message will self-destruct in five seconds.”

Benji yelps, juggles the phone before tossing it towards the trash can. It lands with a clunk, and a few moments later smoke rises from the bin.

He could go. He could refuse, too, but they wouldn’t offer him the job if his technician’s work wasn’t all but done with.

So he activates his automated messaging, leaves his phone switched off in his bag, and goes to Dubai. The team – two women and a man, no one he’s familiar with – meets him at the airport. They drive out to their base of operations, yet another hotel, where he gets a further briefing on the mission. They’ve been tracking an arms dealer, and need an extra pair of eyes to help with surveillance.

The man – “Agent Jones,” he’d said, once inside the car – watches him set up from the other side of the room. “You’ve been here before, right?”

“Yeah.” He rifles through his bags of equipment, looking for a set of bugs he’s _sure_ he included; he tips out half his gear before he finds the bugs, already laid aside on the table. Benji stares at them, sighs, and starts putting his things back.

The fact that he’s back here isn’t what’s setting him off, more that he’s back here without his team. It doesn’t help that he sees the Burj Khalifa nearly every time he steps outside.

Jones continues, “That thing with Hendricks, right?”

The disavowal of the entire IMF was more than a _thing_ ; unsure whether he should be getting questions about it, Benji keeps his eyes on the computer.

“I heard that Hunt broke half his tech to make things more interesting,” one of the female agents – Watson, he thinks it was – comments. Benji’s hands freeze over the keyboard.

“Sounds like something he might do.”

His head snaps up. And he thought the technicians were gossipy.

“Guys, can we focus, please?” The two look at him like they’ve just realised he’s in the room. Benji turns back to his work with a frown. “This isn’t high school.”

They don’t ask him about any of the missions he’s been on after that.

For his part, Benji does what’s asked of him. From the way the agents move around each other, speak to each other, he figures this isn’t the first job they’ve worked together. So he offers assistance where he can, suggests an alternative placement for a listening device or how a different camera might provide clearer results, but otherwise keeps out of their way. Teams develop a rhythm all their own, and he’s not keen on getting in the way of this one.

But then, a few days in, Castel, the third agent, approaches him. Their target has switched hotels, and she needs someone to run interference while she gets into the server room. While Benji creates a distraction in the lobby, Watson will plant bugs in the new suite, with Jones coordinating from their base of operations.

“You think you can do it?” Castel asks after showing him the hotel floor plans.

Even if it isn’t a request, the fact that it’s phrased like one is something worth appreciating. It hits him when he’s got his mouth open, about to respond: he’s the new guy here, the lowest rung on the ladder, at least in the eyes of this group.

Christ. He’s the helper.

Benji fights to smother his laughter and Jones stares at him.

“Agent Dunn? You okay?”

Benji nods, finally getting his grin under control. “Yeah, sorry. Just show me where I need to be.”

“Don’t worry,” Jones says, “you’ll be in and out of there, no problem.”

Naturally, he gets caught in a sandstorm that rolls in right as he’s making his escape from the target’s hotel. The team get what they need, though, and Benji spends most of the flight home digging sand out from all the places it shouldn’t be.

 

By the time he lands in Virginia he’s nothing but tired. The thought of collapsing into bed is the only one that appeals, so he catches a cab back to his apartment and tries not to drift off during the trip. It’s not until he’s inside, sees the blinking light on his answering machine, that he thinks to turn his cell phone back on. While it comes to life he presses play on the machine. That same female voice from a few weeks ago filters through the speakers.

“Good afternoon, sir. I’m calling from the Department of Transportation. This message is to let you know that your overtime check is ready to be picked up. We hope to see you soon.”

There are no unread texts on his cell, no missed calls.

“Least I’m getting paid,” Benji mutters, and leaves the phone on the table.

The bag he took with him doesn’t leave its spot by the door; he’ll empty it tomorrow, a week from now, when he’s not half dead. He strips out of his clothes, tosses them in the general direction of the hamper before grabbing his pyjamas. It’s not that late into the evening, but he settles into bed anyway.

And then there’s a knock at his front door.

Benji pauses, waiting, but then the knock comes again, and curiosity gets the better of him. Not for the first time he finds himself wishing the door had a peephole; he has a gun, though, so maybe that evens things out. Taking in a breath to steady himself, Benji opens the door a fraction.

Brandt’s standing there, hands in his pockets. He’s standing on Benji’s doorstep, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And he’s wearing jeans and a hooded jacket. There’s a crease forming between Brandt’s eyebrows, and it’s only then that Benji realises he’s been staring the whole time.

“Benji?”

His eyes snap to Brandt’s. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello to you, too.” One corner of Brandt’s mouth twitches up.

“No, I’ve got a better one: how’d you even find this place?”

“Oh, so we’re playing the question game,” Brandt says, nodding to himself. “Alright. Are you going to let me in?”

Benji doesn’t move for a few long moments. Then he steps aside, holds the door open. “Okay.”

Brandt ducks his head in thanks, slips through the gap and into the apartment. Benji shuts the door behind him.

He finds Brandt in the living room, eyeing his surroundings; the urge to fiddle with something is so strong that Benji has to clench his fists against his sides.

“I didn’t know you had a place here,” Brandt says.

“Yeah, well.” Benji folds his arms across his chest. “What are you doing here, again?”

Brandt reaches into his jacket and takes out his phone, waves it at him. “Did you really have nothing better to do while I was away?”

“… Y’know, I thought the conversation felt a bit one sided.” Brandt actually smiles a little at that. Emboldened, Benji continues, “Where were you, anyway?”

The smile slips. “I don’t think I can say.”

“Right, course not.” Benji winks, but Brandt’s expression doesn’t change at all. “Wait, you’re serious?”

Brandt’s hands go back to his pockets, and he remains silent. Benji can only stare at him. It makes sense, of course: he wasn’t part of the mission, so why would he be privy to the details? He has no right to demand them, either, considering he’s hardly been forthcoming about Dubai. It makes sense, but it doesn’t stop him from thinking that the world feels slightly off-centre, that he doesn’t quite know where he stands. Silence grows between them, foreign and uncomfortable.

Eventually, Brandt clears his throat. “Hope I didn’t disturb anything.”

Benji frowns, and in response Brandt nods towards him. That’s when Benji looks down at himself and remembers that he’s wearing his old ‘Technicians Do It Efficiently’ boxer shorts.

Shit.

“I,” Benji begins inching his way out of the room, “will be right back. The fridge is where you’d expect it to be, help yourself.”

The last thing Benji sees before he escapes the living room is the bright glint in Brandt’s eyes. He doesn’t breathe until he reaches the bedroom. Once inside he closes the door and then promptly thumps his head against it. He gives himself a second or two to stand there before turning to his chest of drawers. Jeans, trousers, shorts …

“You’re being ridiculous,” he mutters, and slams the drawers closed. Glancing round the room, he spots a pair of sweatpants on the floor that look clean enough.

“All I see is beer and ice cream,” Brandt calls from the kitchen.

That makes him pause. “Really?”

He yanks on his sweatpants and heads back out to the kitchen. Brandt’s peering into the fridge; he shuffles over as Benji approaches, leaving just enough room so that they can stand shoulder to shoulder. There really _is_ only beer and ice cream.

“Huh.”

Brandt leans down, grabs a bottle in each hand. “Your food pyramid needs a little work.”

“I’ll order something in,” Benji says, and grabs the takeout pamphlets from the counter.

He settles on pizza, and after making the order returns to the living room to find Brandt in front of one of his bookshelves, poring over his novels and films. When Brandt notices him, he takes two of the DVDs and holds them up for Benji to see: _The Bourne Identity_ and _GoldenEye_.

“You’re joking.”

Benji points at him. “No. Do not walk into a man’s home and insult his DVD collection.”

Brandt looks down at their covers. “Living this stuff isn’t enough for you?”

“What a compelling argument. You’ve completely changed my mind.” He snatches the DVDs out of Brandt’s hands and returns them to their place on the shelf. For a moment, he thinks he hears Brandt laugh.

 

Quiet fills the space while they wait for the food to arrive. Brandt examines the contents of the bookshelf for a while before taking a seat on the couch, laying his jacket over the back; Benji sorts through his mail and then joins him. They’re each on their second beer when there’s a knock at the door, and when he returns, Benji sets the pizza on the coffee table and grabs a slice. They eat in silence.

“For what it’s worth, we all wanted you there.”

Benji almost starts at the disruption. He looks over, but Brandt’s staring at the drink in his hands, his attention somewhere else. When he doesn’t go on, Benji prompts, “Alright.”

Brandt taps his fingers against the glass. “We needed someone with a different skill set. Ethan knew a guy, someone he’d worked with before.”

“What kind of skills are we talking about here?”

“Without being too specific?” Brandt gives him a knowing look. “Piloting an aircraft.”

Benji slumps back into the couch. “Oh.”

Brandt finishes his drink, gets to his feet and heads for the kitchen. He comes back with a bottle for each of them. Benji acknowledges his with a nod, and goes back to picking the topping off his pizza. When he finally glances up he finds Brandt watching him, his gaze so focused that Benji has to fight the urge to shift in his seat.

“But it went well?” Brandt frowns a little at that, but before he can speak Benji says, “I know, I know, can’t be specific. What about code?” He pauses, thinking. “The, um, the bird landed in the nest?”

Brandt raises an eyebrow at him. “How many hours have you been awake?”

“Shut up.”

As if on cue, Benji becomes increasingly aware of how his eyes are straining, of the way his fuzzy brain is making it difficult to think. The alcohol’s probably helping. Still, since Brandt likely won’t be answering any more of his questions, Benji tips his head back against the couch, closes his eyes.

“Not going to fall asleep on me, are you?” Brandt’s voice is low and teasing, and Benji grins at the sound.

 

When he opens his eyes again it’s only because his pillow seems to be trying to snake its way out from under his head. Benji pushes himself upright with some effort; turning around, he sees Brandt pulling his arm towards himself, wincing. His sleeves have been rolled up but there’s a slight rise under the right one, just above the elbow, circling his arm. Benji doesn’t think twice; he pulls at the material, sees a flash of white before Brandt moves out of reach.

“Hey, lemme --”

“It’s fine.”

“Yeah, totally, the bandage is just for style.” He leans in, pulls at Brandt’s sleeve to get a better view. “What happened?”

Brandt’s mouth twists in a humourless smirk. “One of the birds clipped me.”

“Wha -- Oh.”

With the bandage there he has to take Brandt at his word – not that that’s an issue – but he still finds himself fingering the edges of the wrapping, itching to see the wound.

“It’s just a graze, Benji.”

He nods slowly, pulls his hand away, and Brandt tugs his sleeve back down.

“Everyone else alright?”

Brandt shakes his head but looks amused. “A few cuts and bruises, but otherwise they’re fine. Everything went to plan, more or less.”

“So, not impossible, then.” Benji strokes his chin. “We should petition a name change.”

“Tempting fate, there.”

“When do we do anything else?”

Benji grabs the pizza box, takes it over to the kitchen counter. Brandt follows him, carrying the empty bottles. It’s later than he realised, and having someone else in his space – combined with the beer and his sleep addled brain – is making him twitchy. His skin feels too hot; Brandt’s presence is a distraction, and when Benji heads down the hallway to show him out they end up bypassing the front door entirely.

“You still haven’t told me how you found my apartment.” Before Brandt can get a word out, Benji pokes him in the shoulder and says, “If you tell me that you’ll have to kill me I … don’t know what I’ll do, but it probably won’t be pleasant.”

“I looked it up.”

Benji stares. “That’s it?”

“Yeah,” Brandt shrugs.

“But you’re, like, the super ninja. You just looked it up?”

“Benji.”

“That’s kinda disappointing, really --”

Benji’s back hits the wall. Brandt’s hand comes up to grasp his jaw, and then he’s pressing their mouths together. Benji freezes, caught off guard; Brandt nips at his lip and Benji opens his mouth in surprise, allowing the kiss to deepen. His brain fizzles out about the time he feels Brandt’s tongue swipe against his; the world drops away, until there’s nothing but the heat of Brandt’s mouth on his, the sensation of a body pressed against him, and the pounding of his heart.

He’s panting when Brandt finally pulls back. Benji finds his hands clenched in Brandt’s shirt, holding him close. There’s a look in his eyes, one that Benji can’t begin to interpret, and the attention makes his stomach clench.

“It’s good to see you,” Brandt says.

He doesn’t know how they make it to his bedroom after that, who leads and who follows; Benji ends up on his back on the bed, Brandt kneeling over him. His hands travel down Benji’s sides, slip under the waistband of his pants. Benji raises his hips, helps get the clothing down around his knees; sweatpants were a fantastic idea.

Even more fantastic is when Brandt wraps a hand around him, leans down to lick a stripe up his cock. Between Brandt’s mouth and hand, Benji doesn’t know where to look: the sight of Brandt between his legs almost shorts him out right there. He collapses back against the mattress, and a moment later a warm mouth engulfs him.

Benji clenches his fists in the sheets. The heat is almost too much; he tries to remember how to breathe even as he feels Brandt’s hand moving. He’s wondered, since Berlin, he’s wondered, but he never thought --

It doesn’t take long for him to come.

When awareness returns to him Benji’s greeted with the sight of Brandt, face flushed, jerking himself off. Benji struggles upright, catches Brandt watching him as he leans in, places his hand over Brandt’s, and tries to match his rhythm. Brandt groans, and it sends a thrill up Benji’s spine.

Eventually Brandt pulls his hand away, and Benji’s pace falters in response. “I haven’t --”

“You’re fine,” Brandt rasps, “keep going.”

So he does, moves his hand the way Brandt had been, uses the noises he’s making as an indication of what works. Brandt’s muttering a constant stream of words, things like “yes” and “Benji” and “ _fuck_ , missed you so much”, and Benji bites back a moan at the sound of his voice, rough and breathless. At one point his free hand grasps Brandt’s injured arm, entirely by accident, but before he can apologise Brandt moans and bucks into his hand. It’s only moments after that that Brandt tips forward, reaching one hand up to grasp the side of Benji’s neck, and he pulls him in until their foreheads are pressed together. He comes panting against Benji’s mouth.

 

When he wakes, Benji becomes aware of two things. First, his head is aching. Sunlight is seeping in through the blinds, bright enough that he has to turn away. He can still taste beer at the back of his throat. It’s not the worst hangover he’s ever had – probably doesn’t even count as one – but it’s still not pleasant. Second, there is something warm pressed against his side. Benji pushes himself up on his elbows, glances down, and finds the source of the warmth. Brandt’s lying face down on the mattress, one arm loosely coiled around Benji’s waist. The sight sends a flush rising across his chest, and he’s immediately glad that he didn’t lose his shirt the night before.

Seeing Brandt lying there sets his nerves jangling, though. He’s wired awake, and the silence is too much to handle on his own. Benji clears his throat.

“How d’you feel about ice cream for breakfast?” He doesn’t get a response for a few seconds, but then Brandt groans into the bed, drags his face to the side so he can look up at Benji. He doesn’t say anything, just frowns. “Right, maybe not. There’s a bakery not far --”

“What time is it?” Brandt asks, half into the mattress.

Benji peers over at the clock. “Not long past eight.”

“Too early.” Brandt closes his eyes, tugs lightly on Benji’s shirt. “Go back to sleep.”

He lets himself be pulled back down, sinks into the comfort of the bed and the body beside him.

Maybe later he can convince Brandt that ice cream for breakfast really is a good idea.


End file.
